


He's Searching For Something He Can't Reach

by The_starstruck_prince



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Gen, Ghost Michael, Mentions of Suicide, Mermaid Jeremy, Mermaid Rich, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Siren Squip, faerie christine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 03:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11546847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_starstruck_prince/pseuds/The_starstruck_prince
Summary: Michael thinks about what he is now. Sure, the simplest way is to just say ghost, but he finds something revolting about the term and he’s not quite sure why it bothers him so much.





	He's Searching For Something He Can't Reach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cirkne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirkne/gifts), [klaviergavout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klaviergavout/gifts).



“Rich, can I ask you something… personal?” Michael’s disembodied voice is quiet, barely a whisper. He’s not visible; sometimes he does that, when he’s hiding something. Even in death, anyone can read his expression like a book; he hated the transparency then, he hates it now.

“Sure, I guess,” Rich says absentmindedly, as he examines a few shiny rocks he found. He glances towards where he figures Michael’s voice is coming from, atop a large, flat rock. He pictures him sitting there, knees drawn into his chest, chin resting upon them with his arms wrapped around his legs, like some kind of package. 

“Why did you follow the siren?”

Rich frowns, teeth worrying his lip. It’s incredible that he hasn’t cut himself, with the sharp teeth he’s acquired with his form. His eyes sweep over his arms; the warped, scarred skin seemed to mock him, even now. Michael wonders if he’s overstepped his boundaries, before:

“Before…” A look of annoyance flashes across Rich’s eyes, and Michael thinks that maybe he’s having trouble accepting what he’s become, as well. “I was in a fire. I knew that mermaids could heal themselves… I wanted to get rid of the burns. Sure, they healed into scars, but the scars never faded like I wanted them to.” 

Michael was silent, but he let his shimmery form be visible. Rich was right about how he was sitting.

“I mean, that’s not the only reason, of course. But it’s the only reason I’m willing to share with you.” He says with an empty smile. It’s not meant to be malicious, and Michael knows this. He’s momentarily reminded of the predatory grin of a shark.

“It’s okay now. I’m happy here. I’m… I’m glad that I’m not alone, anymore.” The smile disappears, replaced with a look filled with some emotion that Michael can’t quite pick out. He picks up one of the rocks he’s collected, holding it out to Michael. “You can hold things, can’t you? Here.” 

Michael reaches out, takes the rock from his outstretched hand and sets it next to him. He wonders if Rich notices how cold it is when his hand passes through the other’s.  
  


It’s odd, really. Michael can hold things, pick them up and move them, but he can’t hold them for a long time, so he has a little pile of trinkets that he collected, hidden away somewhere in the forest not far from the beach. There are personal items of his, like his waterlogged headphones that he recovered from the bottom of the lake he drowned in, or a few of the patches he tore from his jacket just before he was pulled from the murky water. Other things, like rocks and coins that he found, laid in the hollow of a tree. 

He kneels down, placing the smooth rock into the pile, trying not to touch the cord of his headphones. It seems every time he touches it, he finds the sensation of his lungs filling with water, choking him and making his vision blur and darken. 

He wishes he hadn’t killed himself. 

He wishes that he hadn’t driven Jeremy over the edge, to that  _ thing  _ in the ocean.   
  


He’s not sure  _ why _ he kept all these things. There isn’t a point, a reason. They don’t make him feel better, or worse; they just… exist. Part of him wants to say that it’s because he misses being alive, and having material things ties him to that, but it’s not quite true. 

He doesn’t miss the living part, he just misses the simplicity of it. 

There’s something Michael remembers as he stands up. ‘Hurting, having feelings is human. It’s part of our nature.’ Where has he heard that before? A book, a movie maybe. A line in a song? It doesn’t matter, he figures. 

_ Was _ he still human? He still hurts. Not in a physical way, but a deep ache where his heart used to be. 

He used to think that when you died, you were supposed to  _ stop _ feeling, but apparently that isn’t the case.   
  


Michael misses his music the most. He misses being able to play the instruments and singing. Maybe he can ask Christine to sing sometime. 

He lets himself dissolve from sight as he makes his way back to the beach, hopefully to talk to Jeremy if he’ll listen.

Sometimes Jeremy’s voice seems to be the only thing that can take the aching away. Sometimes it's the way Rich tells him about the kinds of things he sees under the ocean’s veil, other times it’s Christine’s gentle voice singing out to him- not in the awful way that the sirens sing to Jeremy and Rich to make them forget that Michael’s there, but how everything seems brighter, greener and healthier when she sings. 

He crosses the sand on the beach, watching as his legs move, but no footprints are trailing behind him. He scans the water, looking for any sign of movement other than waves, and sees nothing. 

He considers going back to the trees, following the little faerie rings that Christine makes.

 

He decides against it, going further to the water, crossing over to the wet sand. He stands there and stares, wondering if the outline of his body glows when others see it, like soft moonlight against a dark meadow.  

When the waves come up to meet him, Michael takes a step back, forgetting that the water can’t touch him, can’t hurt him anymore. He looks out at the sea, scanning again. He thinks he sees a ripple on the water, but nothing breaks the surface tension. He considers calling out, but he’s not sure if he wants to anymore.

Michael turns around and makes his way onto a rock, draws his knees into his chest, and looks at the sky. There are deep clouds rolling in, he knows there’ll be a storm in the next few days. He wonders what it’s like, briefly, to be under the water as a storm rages above. 

Is it quiet? Peaceful, even? 

He quickly tries to think of something else. The thought of being trapped under causes a disgusting feeling to coil in what used to be his stomach. He’s not sure how that’s even possible; he tries not to think of that either.

 

He misses the sleep, too. Now that he’s… the way he is, he hasn’t found a way to tune out his thoughts. He wishes he could stop feeling the guilt that’s sunk it’s teeth into him- the guilt that always looks like Jeremy, looks like Jeremy’s pointed teeth ripping into him, tearing out his throat. 

Michael thinks about what he is now. Sure, the simplest way is to just say ghost, but he finds something revolting about the term and he’s not quite sure why it bothers him so much. 

He wishes he wasn’t left alone to be devoured by his thoughts. He decides he wants Jeremy again; he feels guilty for always depending on him, even when they were both still alive and human. He wishes he had admitted his feelings for him before he let himself go- part of him thinks that’s partially the reason why he’s stuck in between being dead and still being conscious. 

Michael brings his hand up to his lip, to press it into his teeth, to tear to the skin off like how Jeremy does when he’s nervous. He realizes he can’t exactly doing this anymore, and he wonders if he picked the habit up from his best friend. 

He’s vaguely aware that he’s not alone anymore, and it feels all too familiar.

_ “Michael?” _

The voice is raspy, hoarse, and it sounds lost and heartbroken, but is undeniably- 

Michael thinks that if he still had a corporeal form, he’d have started crying.

“ _ Jeremy _ …” He reaches out slowly, wills himself to not draw away as he touches Jeremy’s face. 

Jeremy opens his mouth, chokes on a sob, and looks away, covering his face. He sounds like he’s trying to say something, anything, but no coherent words actually come out. Michael moves forward, testing his boundaries- Slowly wraps his arms around the other. Jeremy shudders, but doesn’t move away from him. Michael whispers quiet reassurances, but nothing else; he doesn’t want to overwhelm him more than he already has. 

 

He’s not sure how much time passes, but it’s too soon when Jeremy pries himself away, his eyes screwed shut. Michael is silent, unsure of what to say or do- 

And Jeremy opens his eyes, as if he’s seeing through Michael. Michael tries to touch him, but his hands pass through, and Jeremy looks around, searching. He slides off the rock, back into the water, out of sight. 

Michael notes how his eyes seemed glassy, and he can’t get the image out of his mind; it’s burned there. 

He’s certain that if he had a corporeal form, he would be crying. 


End file.
